finger tap

Because I needed a break from commissions and these shows are practically my life right now. xD

THE DEETS:

Keith (AKA ‘Red’ because he’s just that original) possesses the enhancement quirk 'instinct’, which essentially gives him the speed, strength, senses and reflexes of an animal - a lion, to be specific. Team that with a lifetime of combat experience courtesy of a shitty neighbourhood and an inability to think before he acts, getting into U.A. was a breeze - during his time there he was the best in his class.

Lance (AKA 'Sharpshooter’ because 'Cool Ninja Sharpshooter’ was apparently too long and too stupid) possesses the quirk 'Bullet Fingers’ and it’s pretty much what it says on the tin - the boy can shoot bullets from the tips of his fingers. The density of the bullets all depend on how much iron he’s consumed, so he’s got to eat a lot of red meat to keep his bullets effective. He was originally a student in the General course before wowing the teachers at the sports festival enough to get him transferred into heroics.

(more info beneath the cut)

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It’s storming tonight, you loved storms. The way the thunder drowned out your thoughts, the way the rain sounded like gentle fingers tapping away. 
I loved storms because the lightning would flash through the windows and illuminate your face. I would imagine that the angels were taking pictures for the heavens right before me.
—  Anthony Flores, She Was Meant For The Heavens
2

Guys I realized something really important! More evidence as to why “Shiro” isn’t the real Shiro.

In the past seasons whenever the real Shiro is on a Galra ship, he does the finger tapping thing to track his way around the ship without being caught by soldiers. He completely memorized the routes the soldiers would take. But when “Shiro” woke up this season on a Galra ship, he instantly just got up and left. Like he didn’t even think to check for soldiers. Not a Shiro thing to do if you ask me.

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Say That Again

Summary: Soulmate AU. Everyone hears a key word or phrase in their head from their soulmate, something only heard in person when the moment is right.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word Count: 2,543

Warnings: language, self-consciousness, fluff, that’s basically it

A/N: This is my submission for the lovely wonderful talented @bladebarnes’ 2k Celebration Challenge. My prompt was 35. quote: “Say that again.” I saw Baby Driver recently and couldn’t get the diner thing out of my head.

Originally posted by coporolight

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pretty boy ☾ peter parker

summary : you think peter is very pretty, and your duty as his girlfriend is to tell him every chance you get.

wc : 1.4k 

  Peter Parker has freckles. They’re countless in amount and infinitesimal in size, but they’re spread across his sloped nose, his cheeks, and some of them are scattered across his shoulders from the days he spends at Rockaway Beach in the summertime sun not because he likes the beach, but because you do and you drag him there almost every day throughout July. He doesn’t mind. He can’t have you taking the train there alone, and he’d rather spend time with you in the sweltering heat than leave you by yourself. If you’re sitting close enough, the way you are right in this moment, you can count each one of those stars on his cheeks and play connect the dots with a ballpoint pen, if he’d let you. He most likely would. Peter would let you get away with anything. If you were to try to kiss each individual freckle that was settled there on his skin you’d be pressing your lips to his cheeks for hours on end. He’d like to see you try such a thing. 

   Peter Parker also has the sweetest brown eyes you’ve ever had the pleasure of gazing into. They were warm and kind and they felt like home whenever he turned them on you in that loving way he held. You love the way he looks at you, often and bright with happiness. You haven’t stopped looking at him since you started all those months ago, you couldn’t anticipate a time when you would. He doesn’t mind the permanent way his eyes settle on you, but it’s the way you’re always looking at him that makes him blush and turn his face away. He’s not much to look at, in his opinion. 

    He whines a little when he catches your eye again, trained on him like a reflex once again. His face glows a red the color of a ripe strawberry as he spins around in his chair and stares at the peeling cover of his science notebook. “What’s wrong, pretty boy?” You grinned when he flushed a deeper shade of crimson, still evading the smile that crept across your face. 

   “Y/N,” he whines once more, the heat creeping up toward the tips of his ears. He turns toward you, holding his cheek in his hand and keeping his elbow propped up on the swivel chair. “You know I get all,” he squirmed around in his chair, “flustered when you call me that.” The admittance came with a great reluctancy on his part, but it only made you smile more as you walked across the room and cleared away the clutter of his desk, taking a seat there so you could continue your study in Peter Parker. “I’m not pretty.” 

    “Shhh,” you chastised, using your foot to spin him back around. “You’re very pretty, Peter.” He stretches out his hand, waiting for you to grab it and hold it as careful as always. He presses a kiss to your knuckles whenever you hold his hand, he knows you think it’s the sweetest thing ever and that every single time he does it, you swoon like it’s your first date all over again. He’s big on holding hands. It’s intimate without being too much, and the teachers can’t really scold him for holding your hand the way they can for kissing you against the lockers when you both think no one is around. Still, he kisses your hand, and you close your eyes, smiling shyly. Then, you say, “How’d I get the sweetest, prettiest boy in the universe to be mine?” 

   “Oh, god,” he takes his hand out of yours and covers his cheeks with them, feeling the warmth of his skin against his palms and squeezing his eyes shut. He can’t believe what you’ve made him. A blushing mess undone the moment you call him pretty, sweet, yours. “Feel my cheek,” he demanded, grabbing your wrist and pressing your palm to his face. You laugh. 

   “You’re burning up, babe,” you say, patting his cheek. “I can’t help it. I have to compliment you. All the time. Every hour of every day.” You tap a finger against his cute nose. 

   “I would compliment you but every time I try you swoop in and render my speech incoherent with that little nickname you have for me,” he kept his fist against his cheek as he stared up at you, your legs dangling off his desk as you extend your hands out for him. He takes them, presses them to his cheek. 

   “What nickname?” You question innocently. “Oh, oh, oh, I know which one. Pretty boy.” You held his scrunched up in embarrassment face in your hands, squishing his cheeks. “So pretty.” 

    “I’m gonna spontaneously combust.” The words came out muffled because of the position his face was in, but if he were being honest, he could feel himself light up every time you said he was pretty, as amusing as the word was to him. Even if he doesn’t think he’s much- anything, really- to be fond of, he’s happy, so happy, that you disagree. 

   You call him pretty boy every chance you get. You seize the opportunity with pride, throwing a wink his direction when you can because he has the dopiest little smile on his face for the rest of the day even if he feigns irritation in the moment. 

     You greet him every morning outside his apartment building with a cup of coffee in your outstretched hand and a sweet smile curling at your lips and a, “Morning, my pretty boy,” and Peter starts his school day with a blush, his arm around the shoulders of the girl that he loves. You lean up to kiss the corner of his mouth. He’s invincible. 

    Then, you see him in chemistry class, goggles strapped to your face and a stupid apron around your neck. His heart still stops when he sees you. You slide in the seat between him and Ned, pulling at his goggle strap before it snaps back to his head as gentle as you can manage. “Did you finish the lab conclusion, pretty boy? I’m stuck on the last sent- Ned what happened to him?” You turned to the other boy, eyebrows raised in confusion because Peter is motionless and the redness is spreading all over his neck. 

   “You called him pretty again,” Ned replied, stretching his hand across the table and waving it in front of Peter’s face. “He’s probably just offended that you didn’t greet me with a compliment.” 

   “C’mon, Ned, you know I think you’re gorgeous.” 

   “I’m actually not deaf, guys.” Peter nudged you playfully, rubbing his cheeks with the sleeves of his gray sweater. You ruffle his honey hair. 

  “We know,” you answered. “Ned’s stunning, obviously-” Ned grins at this- “but you’re forever the only pretty boy for me.” Peter scrunches his nose up. Then, he takes off his goggles, placing them next to the looseleaf paper that has his neatly compiled lab report scrawled over the page. He leans forward, scooting his chair close to you so he can remove your goggles, too. He takes your face in his hands and kisses you quick. He’d put more passion into it if the teacher wasn’t standing across the room, looking for any excuse to separate the two of you. Every teacher was the same. He pulls back after a second, his hands lingering on your cheeks when he gazes at you. 

   “I love you, you beautiful and lovely and wonderful girl of mine.” Triumphantly, he removes his hands and places them back down on the desk. He catches it before you turn away toward Ned, and for a brief and fleeting moment, it’s there on your cheeks. “Oh, oh, what’s that I see? Is that a blush?” He jumps around to Ned’s spot, a stupid, prideful grin on his face as he savors the moment for himself, commits the pretty sight to memory. “Pretty girl, are you blushing?” He pressed his hands to against your face, pinching your cheek gently, lovingly. You punched him in the arm, a warning behind your eyes, but Peter didn’t care in the slightest. 

   “Yes, you big idiot,” you mumbled. “Happy now?” 

   “Oh, I’m very happy.” 

   “I hate you.” 

   “Do you really?” Peter raised his eyebrows, resting his palms against your shoulders and rubbing his thumb along the place where your collarbone peeked out of your shirt. 

   “Of course not,” you said, a grumble in your tone. “I love you and your pretty boy face, sweet little freckles and all.” You poked a couple of his freckles and kissed the one by his mouth. Peter sighed, still smiling brightly because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t pretend to be annoyed at you when you called him that name. He’d wear it with like a badge of honor, grateful for it. He had an effortlessly gorgeous love that thought he was the prettiest thing she had ever laid her eyes on, so what more could he ask for? 

james potter: tired eyes. soft smile. will have coffee at any time of day, during any season. likes the sunshine and light warmth. wears button up shirts with the first two buttons unbuttoned. sleeves rolled up to his elbows. spinning a muggle pen between his fingers when he’s lost in thought. neatly clipped fingernails. always has a packet of mints on him. says the word “fuck” a lot. doodles on the corner of his class notes. likes to jog alone to clear his mind. 

sirius black: hard shell but a soft heart. somehow always has a scar. owns six pairs of leather jackets. carries food with him everywhere he goes. loud laughter. never has extra parchment with him. textbooks are filled with underlines and circles. says “fuckin’ hell” a lot. shirt half tucked in. always wears the same pair of combat boots. will punch anyone to defend his friends. his first tattoo was of a lion on his shoulder blade. 

remus lupin: a smile that often doesn’t reach his eyes. bites his bottom lip a lot. shirt tucked in. sometimes wrinkled, sometimes pressed. textbooks are filled with four different colored highlights. bites down on the highlighter cap and pulls the marker out. drinks a lot of water. sweater is worn out but he wears it anyway. mutters “shit” under his breath a lot. gentle laugh. subconsciously cracks his knuckles. likes to sit by the fire. 

peter pettigrew: full of energy. chuckles a lot at other people’s jokes, even if he doesn’t understand them. finger taps on tables when he is bored. subconsciously chews on his fingernails. loves rainstorms. reads a new novel every week. often wearing slippers. doesn’t like too attention on him. walks around the lake alone. always getting late night snacks. doesn’t like to swear. carries a small packet of tissues with him. 

anonymous asked:

I know you probably have a lot of requests with the gods and monsters - but would you ever do an Ares based one?

Zeus’s mistress Io remains in her form of a cow, guarded by Hera’s servant Argus, and Hera is content.

She will remain in that form until her death. Hera hopes that lying with her husband was worth the sacrifice.

Zeus won’t speak to her, unwilling to admit the cow is actually his lover and ensure her death, and equally unwilling to stand against his wife to try and rescue her. Hera has him just where she wants him, and it can’t last, it never does, but she intends to enjoy it while it does.  

Then Artemis comes to her, gold and fierce. She never flinches away from her queen, staring her in the face as if she is nothing more than another of her huntresses. If Hera did not hate her for being her husband’s daughter, she thinks she might actually like the girl. “Io has a destiny,” she says, “you must let her go.”

“I don’t care for her destiny,” Hera says idly, “especially when that destiny involves getting with my husband’s child.”

“She is to give birth to a new line of kings,” Artemis hisses, “to be the wife of a death god, to be mother goddess of a whole new people. She is not meant for us. You must let her go.”

“I am Hera,” she says, “I am Queen. I must do nothing.”

Artemis growls, hand twitching for her bow, but Hera only raises an eyebrow. Let the girl try. There are few that can stand against her, and the huntress is not among them. Artemis lets out a low breath and says, “Do it, my queen, and I will grant you what it is you most desire.”

“Some peace and quiet?” Hera asks.

“A child,” she answers. “Let Io go, let her fulfill her destiny as a goddess of the Black Land of the Nile. If you do that, I, the patron goddess of childbirth, will personally use every ounce of power I possess to ensure you conceive and deliver a child of Zeus.”

Hera’s eyes narrow, “Neither my power nor his has ever been able to achieve this. What makes you think you are any different?”

“We all have our domains,” she says, “just as you cannot command the sea, just as your husband has no power over the art of weaving, so can I ensure a healthy child when you could not.”

She taps her fingers against her throne. They call her a mother goddess, though she’s raised no children. Hephaestus may be her precious son, but he doesn’t know that it was not her that threw him from Olympus. Very few people know that. And she didn’t raise him regardless, that honor belongs to Hecate.

A child, of her and Zeus. A child she can raise.

“I accept,” she announces. “You may take her, and Zeus may fulfill her destiny.” She leans forward, brings the oppressive weight of her power to the fore and lowers the pressure of the air until Artemis is left shivering. “Know this, Patron Goddess of Childbirth. If Io births a son of Zeus before I do, I will travel to the Black Land of the Nile and slay her and her children with my own two hands. Not even Hades will be able to put her back together again.”

“Yes, my Queen,” Artemis says, unable to keep her teeth from chattering.

~

Hera is true to her word. She allows Hermes to think he’s tricked Argus and to steal Io away. She pretends to be outraged at the audacity, at the pure white cow traveling to the sands of the Nile.

Artemis is true to her word. Hera lies with Zeus, like she has so many times before, and a child grows inside of her. One day she stands before her husband and brings his hand to the swell of her stomach, “This is your child.”

Something almost like happiness steals across his face. She forgets, sometimes, that they hate each other only as much as they love each other. After so much time together, many would think it would be one or the other. They simply opted for both.

Artemis is there during the birth, her easy confidence more comforting then Hera will ever admit. Delivering Hephaestus was easy compared to this. She screams and cries and Hestia’s hands on her shoulders are all that keeps her from collapsing and begging someone to just cut the child from her. She doesn’t think she can die in childbirth, not with Artemis between her legs. She wishes she’d thought to ask before this began.

But she does not die. Her son is born, just as healthy and beautiful as Hephaestus was. “Well done,” Artemis says softly, placing the squirming child into her arms.

Zeus touches her hair and kisses his son’s forehead. “We shall call him Ares.”

“Very well,” she agrees, so tired her eyes struggle to stay open.

She hands her son to Hestia, and finally allows sleep to take her.

~

Ares grows into the spitting image of his father. Same copper-red skin, same silky black hair. Her husband keeps it short, but her son lets his grow long. The minutes Hera spends every morning brushing his hair are among her favorite.

He has an eager smile and a soft heart. Hera doesn’t know where he got it, since it’s certainly not from her or Zeus. Demeter tolerates his bumbling after her, though any time Kore attempts to meet her cousin Demeter’s temper frays. Poseidon allows Ares to explore the depths of the sea with a minor sea god acting as his guide. Apollo plays for him, and Artemis teaches him to hunt. Zeus’s lightning doesn’t burn his son, and when storms rage he takes Ares to the top of Olympus and teaches him to throw lightning bolts.

Hera selfishly does not allow Ares to go to the underworld. She knows he would be safe there, that Hades would protect him as he protected Hephaestus, but that’s precisely why she won’t allow it. They got to raise one of her sons already. It pains her to share Ares with them now.

He is happy, and kind, kinder than anyone would expect a child of her womb to be.

“He must choose a domain,” Zeus rumbles, watching Ares shoot arrows with perfect accuracy.

“He is a child still,” Hera says, “let him remain so for a little longer.”

“If he does not choose a domain,” Zeus warns, “one will choose him. We are gods. We must be gods of something.”

She flickers her gaze at him, and he scoots an inch away from her. “He is a child, and for now a child he will remain. We are not Demeter. We shall not thrust the responsibilities and power of a deity on a child who is not prepared for it.”

Zeus disapproves, but says nothing more.

Her son will be the god of something patient, something soft. The god of lost children, of heartbroken suitors, of forgiveness. Something where his gentle heart will aid him instead of hurt him.

She traded her happiness for power. She doesn’t regret it. But Ares doesn’t need to do the same – she’s the most powerful goddess that still walks the earth. He’s her son, and he’ll want for nothing she can provide.

~

Ares is almost fully grown, long hair reaching his hips even braided, and the strength of his limbs is such that he can keep up with Artemis on her most vigorous of hunts, that he can throw his father’s lightning bolts halfway across the world.

He’s been to every place, and met every god of the earth, sea, and sky.

Except for one.

 It’s not hard to find the volcano. He’s strong enough and old enough to take care of himself, and his mother does not worry when he says he’s going to the earth. But he did not tell her where, precisely, on the earth he was going.

He has strong legs.  It’s easy for him to climb to the top of the volcano. He’s almost made it there when something grabs his shoulders, stilling him. He turns, and stares into a single large eye. “What are you doing?” the cyclopes growls.

“I’m looking for Hephaestus,” he says, “He’s my brother.”

“My master has many brothers,” the cyclopes says.

Ares shakes his head. He is not the product of his father’s fling with a sprite or mortal. “I am Ares, son of Zeus and Hera. Just as Hephaestus is. I came here to meet my brother.” The cyclopes hesitates. He asks, “What’s your name?”

“Brontes,” he answers, surprised.

“Brontes,” he smiles, “I just want to meet him. I’ve never met him before. I won’t linger.”

There’s a moment where Brontes looks conflicted, and Ares tries to look as unassuming as possible. “Fine,” he huffs, “but don’t get angry at me if he dips you in lava.”

“That would be fun,” he says brightly. Lightning doesn’t burn him. So far the only thing hot enough to cause him pain is Hestia’s fire. He probably could go swimming in lava.

Brontes looks at him as if he’s slightly unhinged. He just keeps smiling.

~

There are more cyclopes underneath, and bright glittering machines that Ares can’t even begin to wrap his mind around. “Who are you?” someone demands, and a hand grabs his wrist and yanks him away from a boiling vat of lava that he’d been peering into.

He looks up at a man taller and broader than he is. He has skin almost as dark as the obsidian of his volcano, but lighter eyes. They are the color of dark amber, of molasses. “We have the same eyes,” he says happily.

Hephaestus releases him instantly. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not?” he asks, “The mortals talk of you. No one else will. But you’re my brother, right?”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he repeats, “Does Zeus know where you are?”

He shrugs, taking a step closer. His brother takes a step back. He wonders if he’ll have to treat Hephaestus like a spooked horse.  “Father doesn’t keep track of where I am. Mom know I’m on earth.” Hephaestus flinches, small enough that he almost doesn’t notice. “We have her eyes, you know.”

He can’t stop starring at Hephaestus’s skin. They do not work like mortals – Demeter, Hestia, Zeus, and Hera are all different shades despite coming from the same parents. But – Ares looks so much like his father. Kore looks like Demeter. Yet Hephaestus looks nothing like their father. He can see their mother in him, in the eyes and shape of his jaw, even in how angry he is right now. He looks like Hera does when she’s about to lose her temper, lips pressed into a thin line and the careful stillness of his shoulders.

“I wasn’t trying to make you angry,” he says plaintively, “I only wanted to say hello.”

Unlike their mother, Hephaestus lets out a deep breath and seemingly all of his anger along with it. “I’ve been avoiding you.”

“Why? You don’t even know me.”

Hephaestus kicks him lightly in the shin, the pretty gold and copper of his metal legs catching his eye. “You have legs, and I do not. Hera did not throw you from Mount Olympus as she threw me.”

Ares looks hard at his brother’s face. The stories say his mother threw her son away for being ugly, but he seems just as handsome as any other god Ares has seen. His features are strong and chiseled, and he supposes that could have looked unattractive on a baby, but –

– his mother loves him. Hera loves him with a ferocity only matched by her temper, she loves him at his most mischievous and irritable, loves him when a stray thunderbolt sets Demeter’s hair on end, loves him when even Artemis and Apollo have grown tired of his antics, loves him when Athena can tolerate no more of his questions. He is her son, and so her love comes without conditions.

He doesn’t think Hera would have loved his brother any less just because of how he looked.

He also knows that if he tries to say that, it’s likely Hephaestus will push him into a lava pit.

“Well, that’s not my fault,” he says, “If you don’t want us to be brothers, can’t we at least be friends?”

Hephaestus’s face softens. He looks like their mother then too.  He crosses his arms, “You can’t tell your parents.”

Our parents, he thinks but doesn’t say. “Obviously. Where did you get so many cyclopes?”

The last remnants of his brother’s stern façade shatters as he throws back his head and laughs.

~

Ares is very near maturity, more adult than child, and his father constantly pressures him to choose a domain. He usually quiets with one sharp glance from his wife, but the fact remains that it is time for Ares to take his place among the gods of the pantheon, to have temples in his name and worshipers like a proper deity.

He doesn’t really want any of that.  He wants to continue hunting with Artemis, learning with Athena, building with Hephaestus.

His brother lets him help out in his workshop sometimes, if he’s very careful and does exactly as he’s told. Otherwise he sits on a table, legs swinging, and watches his brother work and tells him about what he does in the time in-between visits. He talks about their mother enough that Hephaestus doesn’t flinch at her every mention, which Ares can only consider an improvement. Sometimes Brontes will stand beside him and they’ll eat sweet buns together.

Unfortunately, all things, good and bad, must come to an end.

~

There are two giants, Otus and Ephialtes, who grow tired of hearing of the golden boy of Olympus, who grow jealous of his kindness and his beauty.

These two giants sneak onto Mount Olympus in the middle of the night, sneak into Ares’s room, and kidnap him. They’re not stupid enough to attempt to kill him. Instead, they stuff him into an urn, and seal him inside. Ares rages and fights, uses every trick he can think of to break out his prison, but none of them work.

Stuck at the bottom of the urn and seething, he can’t help but think that if he’d listened to his father and chosen a dominion he might be strong enough to free himself. But he didn’t, so he can’t, and instead he waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Days turn to weeks turn to months. He knows they’re looking for him. He knows his mother will tear apart the whole universe attempting to find him if nothing else. But – what if they can’t? What if he’s stuck in this urn for the rest of eternity?

In his darkest moments, his sorrow turns to rage. He is a god, son of Hera and Zeus, how dare they do this to him?

Then, one day, the urn opens.

Hermes peers down into it, then his face splits into a grin. “We’ve been looking for you!” He reaches down and hauls Ares out, and for a moment all he can do is blink at the glaring sun. Then his vision clears, and he sees they’re in the midst of a battle. The giants are fighting against the gods, against his parents, against the twins, against his brother. It’s bloody carnage, but – he can’t help but feel touched that all these people came looking for him. “Almost everyone offered to help find you,” he says, “but Hera didn’t want to draw too much attention to ourselves trying to sneak into their territory.”

No sooner has Hermes finished speaking than a giant barrels into his mother with sickening snap. Her shoulder slopes at a grotesque angle, but it hardly even slows her down.

“I have to help,” he says, a desperate urgency filling him. They came to help him, and now they’re getting hurt. That’s never something he’d wanted.

“Ares, wait!” Hermes calls out as he goes hurtling toward the battle. He doesn’t wait. Fighting on the ground can only do so much good, they’re strong but they’re outnumbered one hundred to one. He darts to Artemis, twisting around the bodies she’s throwing over her shoulder. “I need your bow!”

“Ares!” she says joyously, then, “What?”

“Trust me,” he says, “give me your bow.” A giant comes running towards them. Artemis flips him over her shoulder while continuing to stare at him in confusion. He’d be impressed if he wasn’t so worried. “Artemis, please!”

She hands over her bow. She moves to give him her quiver of arrows as well, but he’s already moving away from her. Next it’s to his father, who’s hurtling lightning bolts towards the swarm of giants crowding him. They’re deadly, but only so effective at close-range. He grabs a sizzling lightning bolt right from Zeus’s hand, the only being on the planet who could do that and survive, and keeps running. “Get clear!” he calls out over his shoulder. “Everyone move!”

He runs up past Hermes, needing to get to high ground for this to work. “Get everyone off the battlefield,” he says to Hermes. “Now.”

Hermes pulls a face, but by the time he makes it to the top of the mountain, the gods have shaken off most of the giants, are far enough away that he doesn’t have to worry.

He can do this. He’s Ares, the son of Hera and Zeus. He’s been trained in archery by the great huntress herself. He breaths in, and strings his father’s lightning bolt like an arrow. He pulls it back, breaths out, and lets the lightning bolt fly.

It lands in the middle of the battlefield full of confused giants. With a great clap of thunder and a burst of light, they’re all gone.

All that remains of the traitorous giants is a crater.

The gods are approaching him, his mother at a limping gait that makes his chest ache. Zeus gets to him first, grin stretched wide as he grabs him by both his shoulders. “My boy! That was magnificent!”

“Thanks,” he says. The smell of charred flesh is in the air, and it makes his stomach roll.

They kidnapped him. They stuffed him in an urn for over a year. They hurt his mom.

That doesn’t mean he enjoyed it. He never wants to do anything like that ever again.

“This was destiny,” his father says enthusiastically, and Ares has no idea what he’s talking about. “This is what you’re meant to do, son.”

He stares. He hopes it’s not.

The other gods are still at the bottom of the mountain. Artemis and Apollo each have one of his mother’s arms slung over their shoulders and are helping her up the mountain. Hermes and Hephaestus aren’t far behind.

He’s never seen his father look so proud of him. There’s a leaden pit in his stomach he can’t explain.

“In honor of my son’s great feat,” Zeus booms, his voice carrying across air, speaking with the voice of the king of the gods so his words become law, so they spread to every corner of the world, “I declare him Ares, God of War.”

Ares can’t breathe.

This isn’t what he wanted.


gods and monsters series, part xvii

read more of the gods and monsters series here

10

My novel, All the Crooked Saints, comes out tomorrow (10/10), but since I’ll be talking about that tomorrow, I thought today I’d instead talk about books that you could also snag while you were wandering or clicking through a bookstore — these are books I’ve either loved, have just picked up, or are about to pick up myself.

Titles and first lines:

LESS, by Andrew Sean Greer.

From where I sit, the story of Arthur Less is not so bad. Look at him: seated primly on the hotel lobby’s plush round sofa, blue suit and white shirt, legs knee-crossed so that one polished loafer hangs free of its heel. The pose of a young man. His slim shadow is, in fact, still that of his younger self, but at nearly fifty he is like those bronze statues in public parks that, despite one lucky knee rubbed raw by schoolchildren, discolor beautifully until they match the trees. So has Arthur Less, once pink and gold with youth, faded like the sofa he sits on, tapping one finger on his knee and staring at the grandfather clock.

DISAPPEARED, by Francisco X. Stork.

On the morning of November 14, the day she was kidnapped, Linda Fuentes opened the door to my house, where my family was having breakfast. As usual, I wasn’t ready. 

ABSOLUTELY ON MUSIC, by Haruki Murakami & Seiji Ozawa.

Until we started the interviews in this book, I had never had a serious conversation with Seiji Ozawa about music. True, I lived in Boston from 1993 to 1995, while he was still music director of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, and I would often go to concerts he conducted, but I was just another anonymous fan in the audience.

WILD BEAUTY, by Anna-Marie McLemore.

Later, they would blame what happened on the little wooden horses. Estrella had found them when she was five, the set of them dust-frosted and forgotten on a high shelf. They had been small enough to fit in her hands, carved wooden wings sprouting from their backs.

LOVE MINUS EIGHTY, by Will McIntosh.

The woman across the aisle from Rob yammered on as the micro-T rose above street level, threading through the Perrydot Building, lit offices buzzing past in a colorful blur. He should have taken his Scamp. Public transport was simpler, but he always seemed to share a compartment with someone who didn’t have the courtesy to subvocalize.

MOONGLOW, by Michael Chabon.

This is how I heard the story. When Alger Hiss got out of prison, he had a hard time finding a job. He was a graduate of Harvard Law School, had clerked Oliver Wendell Holmes and helped charter the United Nations, yet he was also a convicted perjurer and notorious as a tool of international communism. He had published a memoir, but it was dull stuff and no one wanted to read it.

I AM NOT YOUR PERFECT MEXICAN DAUGHTER, by Erika L. Sanchez.

What’s surprised me most about seeing my sister dead is the lingering smirk on her face. Her pale lips are turned up ever so slightly, and someone has filled in her patchy eyebrows with a black pencil. The top half of her face is angry — like she’s ready to stab someone — and the bottom half is almost smug. This is not the Olga I knew.

THE STONE SKY, by N. K. Jemisin.

Time grows short, my love. Let’s end with the beginning of the world, shall we? Yes. We shall. It’s strange, though. My memories are like insects fossilized in amber. They are rarely intact, these frozen, long-lost lives. Usually there’s just a leg, some wing-scales, a bit of lower thorax—a whole that can only be inferred from fragments, and everything blurred together through jagged, dirty cracks.

THUNDERHEAD, by Neal Shusterman.

Peach velvet with embroidered baby-blue trim. Honorable Scythe Brahms loved his robe. True, the velvet became uncomfortably hot in the summer months, but it was something he had grown accustomed to in his sixty-three years as a scythe. He had recently turned the corner again, resetting his physical age back to a spry twenty-five — and now, in his third youth, he found his appetite for gleaning was stronger than ever.

STRANGE WEATHER, by Joe Hill.

Shelly Beukes stood at the bottom of the driveway, squinting up at our pink-sandstone ranch as if she had never seen it before. She wore a trench coat fit for Humphrey Bogart and carried a big cloth handbag printed with pineapples and tropical flowers. She could’ve been on her way to the supermarket, if there were one in walking distance, which there wasn’t. I had to look twice before I registered what was wrong with the picture: She had forgotten to put on her shoes, and her feet were filthy, almost black with grime.

BTS Reaction to You Flinching During an Argument

Requested by Anonymous, “bts reacts to you flinching? ive seen this one a lot but i want to know how my favorite writer will have this down ((:”


Jin ➳ He didn’t mean it at all, the words slipping from his lips and his tone maximizing as each second passed by wasn’t what he had intended to happen, and especially when you clenched your eyes shut as he had hastily grabbed onto your shoulder — he instantly felt despair wash him over as his limb was quickly retracted. “No, no, no” he quickly said, eyes painted in a thin layer of mist as he gulped, “I could never bring you physical pain, you believe me, yeah?”

You didn’t respond, looking away as you bit your lip whilst sniffling; and when his hand reached up slowly above your frame, it froze, wondering if the moment he decided to lay a finger on you, your image would disappear like the ripples erupting inside the sea.

Originally posted by akaishinkirou


Suga ➳ He was cold, black wispy bangs covering his obsidian orbs like a sheer curtain, but, you could still see the gems gleaming in lividity as his impassive tone was soon laced with a ferocious growl, and even though he had only threw his hand up in the air to point towards the direction the man that had confessed to you had walked down after trying to kiss you inside your own home, you stagger in fear of being hit by the swinging arm — soon landing on your bottom as you let out a weak cry.

“Babe, I'm–” but he stopped, only staring to you in remorse as he believed it wasn’t his place to apologize, wondering how he could have let the argument go so far to the point that you believed he could hurt you.

Originally posted by yoongiyi


J-Hope ➳ It was just a teeny fragment that had chipped from his heart the moment a teardrop of translucent crystals had slithered a trail down your skin, but when you had brought up both arms to hug your face when he had only took a step forward; his heart blasted, immediately causing the man to burst into silent tears. Using the sleeve of his shirt, he wiped the tears away because he knew he didn’t deserve to cry or try to explain himself, yet, his emotions still spoke for him.

“Do you really think that little of me?” He cracked out, reaching over hesitantly as he pulled you into his chest, his other hand lifting your chin up to lock eyes with him, “never will I hurt the one I love, (y/n), never.”

Originally posted by d-boy93


RapMonster“Please!” He yelled, turning to you in a frenzy as you stood at the door with an expression slowly morphing into sadness, “just get out!”

He didn’t know what had overcame him, he didn’t even realize when he had abruptly got up from his revolving chair just to charge towards you and before he could softly push you out from the bedroom, you had squeaked as you nearly toppled over your own footing as he quickly grasped your arm, apologizing to Namjoon in fear that he would hurt you and he knew it. He was heartbroken, letting go of you in the speed of light as he knew he couldn’t trust his own self, slapping his cheeks with his hands to calm his feelings down.

“I would never lay a finger on you,” he muttered, “the day I do, I’d be way past dead.”

Originally posted by just-namjooned


Jimin ➳ It was just a small, stupid argument over something so innocent, yet, he had let his jealousy get the better of him. He wasn’t yelling, only laughing sadistically as he looked to the floor with his fingers softly tapping the marble kitchen table and a small smirk adorning his features which scared you to bits. His kind demeanor was nowhere in sight, and when his head snapped towards your build with his fist slamming against the table and making you yelp — his eyes widened once your back stumbled into the wall just to get away from him.

“I’m sorry.” His whispered, quickly walking away because he knew he was in the wrong, and he also knew he didn’t want to see the expression you made ever again because that was enough to nearly burst his heart in pain and regret.

Originally posted by jinmini


V ➳ He saw the tears trickling down your skin, he noticed the way your pupils blasted with terror but he didn’t care, his anger painted him in colors so morbid that the moment he took a step closer to you, you couldn’t help but raise your arms up in defense as you flinched away. It was in a matter of seconds that the lone gesture had him apologizing immediately, quickly walking away from you to cool down and try to erase the image that would soon haunt him in his dreams.

“I love you, you know that, right?” He whispered into the spacey room later that night, slowly pulling you into his chest. Digging his face into your neck, he pressed a soft kiss as he waited for you to slowly fall into slumber.


Jungkook ➳ He was boiling with rage, his anger threatening to scald you as your yelling only further cackled the fire simmering the large pot of water that was slowly evaporating into thin air. Here he was slamming his fists onto the table, against the walls and once he stepped towards your frame as his hand reached for your shoulders — you flinched, squeezing your eyes shut as a tear slid down your cheek.

Jungkook froze, previous emotions flying from his mind as his heart began to shatter in many pieces, quickly pulling you into a hug and running a hand through your hair. “I’m sorry,” he said, and although you could only laugh at the situation, his arms tightened around you, “I would never hurt you, please, believe me..”

Originally posted by kookiesforjimin


Masterlist

Detention

Peter Parker x Reader

Words: 892
Plot: Peter gets put in detention with the reader. Cute note passing ensues.
A/N: I know I said I’d write more Alex Summers but GUYS! SPIDERMAN! I saw it at the movies and it was so good, so pure. I know most of you are out of high school now so this is a #throwback. I tried to make it totally cute.

Originally posted by vintagejosh

Peter slumped against the desk; pushing his forehead against the cool plastic of the table. Detention again; somehow, he always managed to end up back in detention. It wasn’t like he was trying to be here: he just couldn’t catch a break. Turns out fighting crime and writing his biology paper were incompatible things.

The clicking of a pen made him grogilly open his eyes.
A few desks away from him; a girl perched awkwardly on her chair, scribbling doodles onto her notepad. Peter wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her before; he wondered if she was new or just way above his social radar.
Who wasn’t?
But something about the way her mouth pressed together made his head spin. She was unconventionally beautiful; lush hair and kind eyes that tugged his gaze, made his blood prick in his skin. And he thought-
She raised her brow, curiously returning his gaze. Ah, shit. He’d been staring at her like a creepy stalker. How’d he always manage to screw up this bad?
He shifted his gaze immediately to the ceiling; pretending he was checking out the old pieces of tissue that had been lodged into the gaps in the paneling until he thought it was safe.

Something tapped his shoulder; a crumpled piece of paper bouncing across the carpet at his feet. The girl was hastily writing in her notepad again; attempting to look nonchalant, no doubt.
Peter bent down, unfolding the little scrap at his feet.

What are you in for?

Peter bit his lip, rustling into his backpack for his science book. It wasn’t hard to tear out a spare page in a vaguely square shape. He clicked his pen awkwardly, nerves building in his chest.

Busted for no biology homework. You?

He crumpled it, his eyes darting around the room to see if the supervisor was watching. He wasn’t, as usual; he looked about as bored as Peter felt, and seemed to be watching Netflix on his laptop or something of the like. With minimal effort, Peter threw the little piece of paper and managed to get it to roll onto her desk.
She smiled to herself, looking up at him for a brief moment.
Wow. 

Made a model of a volcano. It may have exploded.

Peter looked over, laughter playing on his lips
“Seriously?” he mouthed.
She nodded, a look of disbelief on her face as she thought about the incident.

“(y/n)” the supervisor called, looking up with absolute neutrality plastered across his features “you can go whenever.”
She tapped her fingers on her desk awkwardly.
“I might stay here to study for a bit” she breathed. Peter detected a hint of an accent; her voice was every bit as lovely as he expected “it’s…quieter here than the cafeteria”.
The supervisor shrugged. “Suit yourself”.

(y/n) smiled to herself, wrinkling her nose as she tore off another note and tossed it to Peter.

So, who are you, other than the guy who doesn’t do his homework?

Peter swallowed.

Other than the guy who doesn’t do his homework, I’m Peter Parker. But I prefer the first one.

She laughed, and he felt his heart sing.

“Alright Peter, you’re good to go” the supervisor called out, yawning quietly. Peter stood up slowly, his chair sliding across the floor as he slung his backpack over his shoulder.
(y/n) stared at him, her notepad pressed to her chest.
Peter motioned towards the door, raising his brows nervously.
She nodded, swinging her hair back and throwing her bag on.
Peter felt his heart stutter awkwardly as he made it into the hallway, her footsteps directly behind him.

“I think that guy might have been the most chilled out detention supervisor I’ve ever seen” she laughed, stumbling awkwardly as she tripped over her laces slightly. Peter held out his hand to catch her elbow; the places where his fingers met her skin felt awkward and clammy. 
“Sorry. Clumsy” she breathed, grabbing at the straps of her backpack as they walked in tandem through the corridor.
“Oh, yeah, me too. I’m always…tripping over things. Y’know?” he stuttered, words leaving his mouth in a slush of anxiousness.
Oh my god.
“You’re good at the words thing” she teased, a half-smile tugging at her lips as her eyes lingered on his. Oh man.
“That’s what they say” Peter grinned, slowing his pace so that he didn’t get to his locker in a hurry. He wanted to spend longer just talking; he didn’t want it to end here.
“Well, this is me” she added, scratching the back of her head as she stopped by the doors to the chemistry labs “but it was great to meet you, Peter. I get the feeling it won’t be the last time”.
Peter felt the breath leave his lungs for a second, his face growing hot.
“Yeah, it was nice. I hope you…explode more volcanoes. So we can hang out.”
She grinned, awkwardly spinning on her heels “okay, great”.
“Great”.
And with that, she strode into class, glancing back just once as he waved slightly like an absolute moron.

“Tell me you got her number” Ned gasped, appearing behind Peter and breaking his trance “she’s amazing”.
Peter shoved Ned’s shoulder slightly, turning him to face the other way as they both walked down the hall.
“I’m working on it” he muttered.

the funny feeling in his stomach and the weight that seemed to be bearing down on his chest had been lingering for about ten minutes before jace mustered up the courage to ask alec what was wrong.

“you’re upset about something.” alec looked up from his desk, an emotionless almost forced look on his face.

“i’m not upset about something. why would i be?” alec answered too quickly for jace to be convinced and he sat down on the desk next to alec, who now had his head bowed and was avoiding eye contact.

“i can feel it through our bond,” jace explained slowly, tapping his fingers on the desk. “it started just now. it’s funny because i’ve never felt this kind of emotion through the bond before. it’s like-” jace looked back at alec and was alarmed to see that he was shaking slightly, hands clenched so tightly his knuckles were white and he was biting his lip so hard he was sooner or later going to draw blood.

it fell together like puzzle pieces, dawning on jace like the start of a new day.

“heartbreak.” jace almost whispered and alec exhaled shakily through his nose, squeezing his eyes shut.

“oh, god, alec, i’m so sorry.” was all jace could manage to say before alec looked up at him for the first time in what felt like years, tears in his eyes and a teardrop clinging to his nose as if for dear life.

“do you want to talk about it?” jace asked carefully and alec shook his head rapidly and jace wanted to cry too because of how lost, how young and vulnerable alec looked in this moment, how shattered.

“i love him,” alec croaked out after a few seconds of silence, voice choked up and raw. “i love him so much, jace.”

“i know you do, buddy. believe me, i know.” jace said in a soothing tone, slowly putting his hand on alec’s back and rubbing.

“i’m so stupid,” alec laughed weakly, shaking his head and wiping his eyes. “i should have known, i should have realized this would never work out. that we come from two different worlds that would only try to tear us apart.”

“hey, hey,” jace put his hand on alec’s shoulder. “you’re magnus and alec. you two are made for each other. this is going to be okay, i promise.”

alec breathed in, tears now streaming freely down his face. “i don’t know, jace. i don’t know.” he repeated as if in a trance and jace took alec into his arms, holding his brother as he finally let a sob escape his lips.

“it will. i know it.” jace assured, even though he didn’t really know, but it was the best he could do, the best he could say and the only thing he could think of to say to his crying brother, who had his face buried in his shirt and was wetting the fabric with his tears. the weight on jace’s chest was heavier than ever and his stomach was churning up a storm.

Dance with Me || Tom Holland

Relationship: Tom Holland x reader

Summary: You’re flight is delayed but fortunately you have Tom to try and entertain you.

Warnings: So much fluff you may need to sit down.

Word Count: 580 words

A/N: the song I used is called ‘The End of All Things’ by Panic! at the Disco and it is highkey my favourite song to cry to have a listen to it please!!!!!


You let out a bored sigh, your fingers tapping a random beat on your bouncing leg. Tom seemed to be perfectly entertained by something on his phone and although you tried to distract yourself with your own phone, it didn’t work there was simply nothing that could hold your attention. 

You leaned your head on Tom’s shoulder, letting out another exaggerated sigh trying to get his attention, “what is it, darling?” He asked a small smile playing on his face, “I’m booored,” you whined as he locked his phone and placed it back in his pocket. 

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Chem Miss

Author: @kpopfanfictrash as part of Bangtan University - a series of ongoing one shots with @eradikeats-writes

Creative Content Contributors: @daegusoftboys (her moodboards for the series are perfection)

Pairing: Reader / Jimin

Rating: 18+ (explicit sex, dirty talk)

Word Count: 12,807

Summary: “You’re my TA. I’m in your class. I’m sure you don’t want to spend your Saturday night talking to me about biochem.”

Jimin appears amused by this. “Who’s to say that I don’t? Also,” he leans in, a slight smile on his lips. “Who says we have to talk about Chemistry?”

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here are a bunch of AMAZING fics I’ve enjoyed and loved reading throughout the month of august. I recommend that you read these great fics in september, if you haven’t already!! also check out the HL Summer Fic Exchange!

(all fics with a star are my favorites and if there are two stars then it was a favorite favorite)


1. How Far We’ve Come 32k

“This is Harry Styles,” Chiron offers.

He’s beautiful. His eyes are a stunning green, the color of new foliage. The new kid’s limbs are long and lanky—he looks extremely uncomfortable and uncoordinated. Louis internally smirks to himself, guessing the kid probably won’t be too skilled with a sword, or a bow, or anything sharp, most likely. His hair falls to his shoulders in sets of loose, brown curls. The color is rich and luscious, resembling soil so much that it looks like flowers could sprout from his hairline at any moment. But Louis’ eyes are stuck on his soft looking lips, pink as flower petals and slightly parted as his eyes scan the horizon of the camp.

“Welcome to Camp Half-Blood, Harry.”

2. It’ll All Come Up Roses 4k *

Louis was leaning against the railing of the bridge, looking down at the water completely lost in thought when he heard someone approach the bridge from the side that he came from. Glancing up, he noticed Harry walking towards him, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, and seemingly lost in thought. Louis shifted his weight onto his other foot and stood up properly, watching quietly as Harry walked past him. Louis opened his mouth. He wanted to say something to Harry to break the silence, or at least to get him to notice him standing there against the bridge railing - but the words got stuck in Louis’ throat, and he snapped his mouth shut, going back to staring down at the water mindlessly instead. All the while, trying hopelessly to figure out what the fuck he’s doing with his life. Harry kept walking, and soon Louis was once again left alone to his thoughts.

Or the one where Louis really doesn’t hate his neighbor who keeps waking him up at the crack of dawn. Ft magic, Liam, Niall, and Zayn barely being mentioned, Harry and his fucking motorcycle, a date and a kiss.

3. Freeze This Moment in a Frame and Stay Like This 5k

Harry (not so) secretly crushes on the cute footie player and fills pages with sketches of him.

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Bruised (Richie/Eddie) 7/12

Summary: It’s 1993 and the summer from many years ago is dead and gone. Many have drifted apart from the Losers club and its at the point where there is no club at all. The atmosphere is cold just like the winter months and the only blushes to be found are the ones that are caused from the piercing spikes of cold that heat skin up. Being a teenage boy is hard; especially for the two boys that now count each other as strangers. In which both boys make a plan, but both disrupt each others.

Warning(s): Mentions of past self harm, child neglect, transphobic comments !!! ( I am not transphobic, but my series on the whole is triggering and these warning(s) are here for a reason.) SLURS ARE IN BOLD

A/N: here is your angsty richie chapter - KINDA RUSHED BUT ITS FILLER

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 (Soon) | …

Richie found himself alone in his car, driving home at roughly 8pm that night after his adventurous day with Eddie, his cravings for the cigarettes only growing stronger by each given second but his refusal to disappoint Eddie lurked on his shoulders. He was going to change for the better, just for Eddie.

His hands gripped at the leather wheel, his red truck gliding down the familiar roads with the faint radio humming along in the background. The melody intertwined itself through the vehicle, one of his favourite artists playing to soothe his road anxiety that he’d keep a secret.

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Bygones of the Sun | 05 (M)

Originally posted by hobismole

Genre: Angst/fluff/(future)smut || dance captain!hoseok, bad boy!au, uni!au

Pairing: Reader x Hoseok

Length: 4.3k

Summary: Jung Hoseok was once the sweetheart of the school, the dance captain whom every girl, including you, can’t help but fall head over heels for. But like the force of the ever-glowing sun, everything that rises must also set. A year of inactivity later and he’s now the school’s resident bad boy. You’re a firm believer of allowing the past be the past, and yet you can’t help but wonder where the risen sun has gone into hiding—because perhaps its shadows have out-shined its own radiance.

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06

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